He stopped and drew a breath that coursed euphorically through his body: it was as if he had been granted a reprieve, a cure! Turning around, he strolled joyfully back to the budgerow, and there, as if to confirm his exculpation, he found a visitor waiting.
It was Mr Doughty, bearing an invitation to the Harbourmaster’s Dance, a fancy-dress ball intended to raise money for the Mariners’ Mission in Calcutta: it was the custom to give away a few tickets to indigent but deserving young sailors.
Zachary understood that Mr Doughty had gone to some trouble to procure a ticket for him and thanked him profusely. ‘But the trouble is, Mr Doughty, I don’t have a costume.’
But Mr Doughty had thought of this too. ‘Oh, don’t you worry about that, my boy. I’ve got one for you — same thing I’ll be wearing. Why don’t you come over early and eat dinner with us that day? I’ll get you all kitted out — won’t cost a thing and you’ll enjoy yourself, I promise.’
Three
Every year at the start of winter, around the time that the festival of Naga Panchami was celebrated, a mela was held at the akhara where Kesri went to train. Along with all the usual fairground attractions, a special raised ring was prepared and wrestlers came from afield to test and prove themselves.
The mela lasted several days and attracted a great number of sepoys, jawans and other military men; thousands of them would converge on the shrine, along with hordes of naked Naga sadhus who came there from distant points in the Indian subcontinent. The festival was considered particularly auspicious for new recruits so it was arranged that Kesri’s brother, Bhim, would wait till it was over before leaving for Delhi with his cousin.
That year Kesri was in the open competition for the first time and much was expected of him. But his brother’s imminent departure, and the prospect of his indefinite detainment in the village, had so demoralized Kesri that he lost quite early, dashing the hopes of his guruji. This added to his misery and the next day he was scarcely able to drag himself out of bed. For once his father took pity on him and let him off from going to the fields.
Since Bhim was soon to depart for Delhi, this became an occasion for the family to gather in the angaan in front of their dwelling. Their mother sent out snacks, sweetmeats and sharbat while everyone lounged on charpoys in the shade of the mango tree.
Around mid-morning, as they were savouring the treats, a horse-cart was spotted in the distance, wheeling up the path that led to their straw-thatched home. Soon enough it became clear that the men in the carts were strangers. The food was swept away and the girls were sent inside. Ram Singh went to greet the visitors himself, with Kesri and Bhim on either side.
The first man to step out of the cart was of impressive, even intimidating appearance. His chest was as deep as a battle-drum and his hands were big enough to cover a brass thali. His upturned moustache glistened with wax, and his skin, which was the colour of ripening wheat, was burnished to a glow with mustard oil. Everything about his appearance and his manner — the taut mound of his belly, the heavy gold rings that dangled from his ears, the richly embroidered shawl around his shoulders — spoke of expensive tastes and voracious appetites. He gave his name as Bhyro Singh and said his village was near the town of Ghazipur, some sixty miles to the west of Nayanpur.
This put Ram Singh on his guard. The people of the area around Ghazipur were known to have close links with the British because many of them were employed by the Company’s opium factory. But Bhyro Singh did not look like a factory worker. Even though he was not in uniform, Ram Singh sensed that he belonged to the East India Company’s army. Nor was he mistaken: the visitor soon explained that he was a havildar in the ist battalion of the 25th Regiment of the Bengal Native Infantry — the famous ‘Pacheesi’. The three men who were with him were sepoys from his own battalion; they were on their way to join their paltan and had decided to stop at the Naga sadhus’ mela before proceeding to the regimental base at Barrackpore, near Calcutta. He had come, he said, to discuss a matter of some importance.
It turned out that Bhyro Singh was a recruiter who had heard of Kesri’s prowess as a wrestler; he had come in the hope of persuading him to join the East India Company’s army. When Ram Singh said that Kesri was not available for recruitment Bhyro Singh was taken aback; he was even more surprised when he learnt that his brother, Bhim, was soon to leave for Delhi to join the Mughal Badshah’s army.
But why, Ram Singhji? Bhyro Singh protested. The boy is young and you are his father. You should explain to him that Delhi is not what it used to be; a soldier who wants to rise in the world needs to go to the East India Company’s capital — Calcutta. There is no army in Hindustan that can match the terms offered by the British.
How so?
This prompted Bhyro Singh to launch into a detailed listing of the advantages of the Bengal Native Infantry: while the basic pay might not be higher than in other armies — just six rupees a month — what counted was that the money was always delivered in full and on time. Besides, there were regular increments, with rank: a naik received a basic pay of eight rupees, a havildar ten, a jamadar fifteen, and a subedar thirty. Best of all, the salary was always paid on schedule: never once, in all his years with the Company, had Bhyro Singh known it to be delayed.
Tell me, Ram Singhji, of which other army in Hindustan can it be said that their soldiers are paid regularly? You know as well as I do that our rajas and nawabs purposely keep their salaries in arrears so they won’t desert. Such things are unheard of in the East India Company’s army.
And the battas!
The Company’s allowances were more generous, said Bhyro Singh, than those of any other army: they added up to almost as much again as the basic pay. There was a special batta for marching and another for campaign rations; still another for uniforms. As for booty taken in battle, the splitting of the spoils was always scrupulously fair. Why, after a major battle in Mysore, the English general had kept only half the loot for himself! The rest was divided fairly amongst the various ranks of officers and sepoys.
But that was still not the best of it, said the havildar. The Company Bahadur was the only employer in all of Hindustan that looked after its men even after they had left service. When they retired they were handed something called a ‘pension’ — a salary, of at least three rupees a month, that was paid to them for the rest of their lives. On top of that they could obtain land grants if they wanted. If wounded, they were provided with free medical care whenever they needed it.
Do you know of any employer in Hindustan that offers all this, Ram Singhji? Tell me, truthfully.
Ram Singh’s eyes widened but he parried by asking: What about accommodation? In Delhi they give their soldiers quarters to live. Does the Company do the same?
Bhyro Singh acknowledged that this was not the case at his own regimental base: instead every sepoy was given a hutting-allowance, to build his own shack.
But believe me, Ram Singhji, no one minds doing this because that way we can all live as we like, among our own kind.
Now, with the first seeds of doubt sprouting in his mind, Ram Singh began to voice other, more pressing objections to the Company’s service.
Say what you like, Bhyro Singhji, he said. But these Angrez firangis are beef-eating Christians. For Rajputs it can only bring shame on our families if we work for them. Isn’t it true that everyone who joins the Company’s paltans must eat unclean and forbidden things? That he must live side by side with men of all sorts, including the lowest?